Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 5
“Lucy, I’m sorry,” Cristoph said.
“I know.” I sat on the cold, hard, basement floor and petted the long-haired, blue-eyed orange kitten as it purred loudly and treaded my thighs. Strangely, this felt soothing. If I did this for another two days straight, I might be able to process all the chaos zipping around in my brain.
“Do you want me to call for help?”
“Who can help with this kind of dilemma? Do you know someone who can change the document you filed? Is that even legal? It doesn’t sound legal to me.”
“Not the document. Do you need help? You slid down the wall ten minutes ago and you haven’t gotten back up.”
“Similar to the commercial, my emotions have plummeted, and they cannot get up. My legs are in solidarity with my feelings. They want to stay put.”
“That’s just advertising for a life alert product for seniors. You’re not elderly.”
“I’ve aged thirty years in the past month.” I pushed myself to standing. “As much as I appreciate your help and rigorous honesty, Cristoph, I’m done for today. I’m leaving. I’m going home—”
“You mean you’re returning to my townhouse—”
“Whatever. Why’d you have to bring me down into the basement to give me bad news?” I trod toward the staircase at the far end of the basement as the kittens wove around my feet, determined—just like everyone else—to trip me up. “Was it so that no one else would hear what you did? Or perhaps the thick concrete walls would muffle my screams? Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Next time you want to deliver shitty news, text me.”
“I didn’t bring you down here to tell you shitty news.”
“That’s funny, because all I’ve heard from palace people today is bad news. Bad news about my living situation. Bad news about my marriage.”
The bully kitten latched onto my ankle and climbed my leg, piercing my tights with its razor sharp claws. I winced, plucked it from my limb, cradled it in my palms, then lifted it close to my face. He/she/whatever was impossibly cute, blue eyes staring into mine, pink nostrils narrowing and flaring as its skinny, white whiskers shivered. “Whose kittens are these? Tell me they have loving owners who pet them, feed them, and dangle catnip toys in front of their adorable faces. Give me one tiny slice of joy today. Just one piece of good information, I beg you.”
“The marmalade tiger kittens are palace cats.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’re like an upscale version of ‘barn cats’. They’re free to roam about the grounds and help keep the mouse population in check. In return, they’re given table scraps and are fixed. Well, now and again we’re a little too late on that last item.”
“Just more bad news.” The rascal’s fuzzy, smaller sibling attacked my sneaker. It fell onto its side, kicking its heels into my aerodynamic footwear, and pulled on my shoelace. I couldn’t help but smile. “These fur babies need a home. Everyone needs a home. I’m going home, back to Nick and my townhouse.”
“I don’t think you’re going to want to leave before I reveal the reason I brought you down here. I bent the rules a bit, but I do believe the crown prince can do that every now and again.” He hit the intercom button on the wall, and a door slid open. A bright, well-lit shiny corridor was revealed and I blinked. A uniformed palace guard positioned at the end of the corridor nodded and then turned away. “Follow me,” Cristoph said.
“Why? I’m tired of blindly following you down hallways, staircases, and into dark cellars where I’m given downer news. Not to mention someone needs to adopt these impossibly cute kittens. Give me a reason to follow you through that door. And it better be good.”
“I think this will cheer you up,” Cristoph said.
“Lucy, I missed you.”
That voice was familiar. It was dark and sweet, hungry, and sexy. My neck whiplashed as I turned and watched him lean out of a shadowy doorframe into the bright glow of the hallway lights: A three-day beard on his face. Black hair. Sexy as sin. My love. My prince. My…
“Nicholas!” I ran to him and leaped into his waiting arms.